Merry, Merry King
by The Road Goes On
Summary: John is haunted by Moriarty's voice taunting him in a psychotic break after Sherlock's fall.


Lestrade pulled up to the front of St. Bart's. He had received the news only a few minutes ago and rushed to the hospital. Dead on arrival, they said, no point in going inside, Mycroft had already identified the body. But after he hung up on the hospital workers he opened a text from Mycroft, _John is still outside. It's best if you get him. - MH._

As Lestrade stepped out of his car he saw John, sitting with his back against a wall next to the crime scene tape being put up by police. The inspector walked quickly to the doctor and crouched down next to him. John's hands were cupped around his face and his body was shaking. The hospital staff had put a shock blanket around him, exactly like the one Sherlock wore those months ago.

"John?" Lestrade asked gingerly. "John, are you OK?" He gently laid a hand on his shoulder, trying to bring him back to the present.

John stared into space and slowly his head began to shake. "They moved me. I didn't want to. He's not dead," He said quietly. Suddenly he turned his head sharply to the square where Sherlock met the pavement. He stood and stumbled quickly towards the area. "If I can just see him… let me see him…" He shoved his way through the policemen and hospital workers, Lestrade following on heels, too scared to say anything. John collapsed on his knees in front of the pool of blood, not yet cleaned. He began to use his hands to try to scrape the blood closer to him. "If I just bring this to him. He needs it. He can't live without blood. It's a bit muddy perhaps, but there are mechanisms in the body that can clean it. I saw worse in med school."

Lestrade stared hopelessly at John, who was smiling psychotically while still scraping his hands through the blood. Lestrade bent down and placed on his hand on John's shoulder. John jerked up and grasped Lestrade's wrists with his bloody hands. Lestrade looked into his tear filled eyes and said, as sympathetically as he could, "John… John, Sherlock's dead. There's nothing we can do."

"No. No… no, it can't be." John said, tears winning over gravity and falling down his face. He turned quickly back to the blood. "Just, let me get this to him," he said trying to scoop up the red liquid with cupped hands.

Lestrade frantically grasped at John's wrists as he knelt next to him. "John. John." He said as the doctor tried pulling away, frantic in his grief. "John! He's dead! He's dead and there's nothing we can do! Just stop, please, just stop. This isn't you, just stop."

John stopped struggling and fell forward into Lestrade's chest. "He's not dead," he cried.

"He is, John."

The doctor shook his head. Lestrade tried to carefully pick John up and he obliged, almost without thinking. "C'mon, let's take you to the flat, eh? Mrs. Hudson's waiting for you."

John simply sniffled in response, the signs of the man he once was rapidly fading.

Two Weeks After

John had not been into work. They understood. He simply sat, curled up in his armchair, arms wrapped around his legs.

The voices started not long after.

Three Weeks Later

John stood in the bathroom, facing his reflection, just as the voice told him to do. He began to recognize the voice as that of Jim Moriarty; he had only heard it once, but he could never forget the gleeful way in which he spoke- spoke of disaster and death.

"Look at what you've become, Doctor Watson," Moriarty mocked. "You're a shade, a ghost." John rubbed his hand against the stubble on his jaw, a blank expression in his eyes. "When was the last time you showered? You're absolutely disgusting. Why are you still alive? Why haven't you jumped off of something like dear old Sherlock did?"

John would sit on his armchair day after day. Sometimes his stomach would grumble since he had taken to fasting.

_Grumble_. "You don't deserve to eat. You're the one who killed Sherly," Moriarty said in his ear.

"No," John would say, his voice worn from exhaustion. "That was you."

"But you didn't stop him, so it's all the same isn't it?"

John bowed his head as his body started shaking.

Sometimes Moriarty's voice would become childish and demand things like a three year old.

"Walk to the other side of the room," he would demand and John, being too tired and grief-stricken to object, did as he was told. "Now turn in a circle three times." John would. "Jump twice." John would attempt to do so, but his feet would not lift him much higher than an inch. "That was pathetic," Moriarty would scornfully say. "Pathetic like your attempts to save Sherlock. Do it again." John would collapse against a wall and this only enraged Moriarty. "What are you good for?" he would shout as John covered his ears to no avail. "You're absolutely useless. What do you do anymore? Sit on a couch? You can't even sleep! You used to be so much! You used to be worthy of me kidnapping you! You used to be worthy to live with Sherlock! A homeless on the streets is worth more than you now."

John had become catatonic. He sat on the couch and couldn't move, not even to listen to Moriarty's demands. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson would come to check on him, but she could do nothing to help and so instead sat across from him, begging for him to do something. John would only stare blankly ahead.

"_Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree./ Merry, merry king of the bush is he_" Moriarty sang when he got bored, "_Laugh, kookaburra, laugh/ Kookaburra, gay your life must be._"

After a three months, Moriarty began demanding things again. "Let me see your arm." John lifted his arm mindlessly. "Pull up your sleeve." John did. "Scratch." John did. "Harder. Scratch until you bleed. That's all you're good for, isn't it? Just an empty shell." The pain burned, but Moriarty's taunting drove him onward. Eventually he broke skin and the blood leaked under his fingernails, now long.

"Scratchscratchscratchscratch SCRATCH," Moriarty yelled. Eventually John stopped, but he could not bring his arm back to his side, so it lay suspended in midair, bleeding as silent tears fell down his face.

"Good. That's a good slave. That's all you are, isn't it?"

"_Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree/ Merry, merry king of the bush is he/ Laugh, kookaburra, laugh/ Kookaburra, gay your life must be._"

"Make me tea." Moriarty demanded.

John obeyed, knowing that Moriarty was only a delusion, a voice in his head, he obeyed. He put the kettle on and pulled out a mug and a bag.

"Make two cups, actually." John obeyed. "Now take the cups to the sitting room." John obeyed. "Now sit." John obeyed. "Look at the tea, John. You're not deserving of tea, couldn't even save your best friend's life. No tea for you, Doctor Watson."

John thought he could see one cup rise, just a bit.

"_Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree/ Merry, merry king of the bush is he/ Laugh, kookaburra, laugh/ Kookaburra, gay your life must be._"

"You kept all of dear Sherlock's clothes, didn't you, Doctor Watson?" John nodded, his head the only part of his body moving. "Go to the closet." John obeyed. "Grab the scarf." John obeyed. He picked up the blue scarf, stained with blood and dusty from months of disuse.

_Kookabura sits in the old gum tree_

"You know how to make a noose, right? Practiced it in that old flat of yours, before you met Sherly? Right? Good. Make one." John obeyed. He tied the knot in the scarf and held it gently in his hand.

_Merry, merry king of the bush is he._

Moriarty laughed menacingly. "Go to the kitchen, Doctor Watson. Remember how that mannequin was hanging? The day we met again, wasn't it? Tie the scarf like that." John obeyed, pulling out a kitchen stool to reach the eave.

"Put the scarf around your neck." John obeyed. He could sense Moriarty smiling that lizard smile of his. "How fitting, isn't it? Sherlock jumped, now you will too? I do love symmetry."

_Laugh, kookaburra, laugh_

"Jump, Doctor Watson." John obeyed.

_Kookaburra, gay your life must be._


End file.
